


feels like adventure when i’m with you

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Curses, F/F, Gen, Magic, Magic-Users, Magical Lydia Martin, Old Friends, Runes, Strained Friendships, Tavern Fight, The Hale Family, Uneasy Allies, Witch Lydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic and werewolves don't mix.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Cora, Lydia + high fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	feels like adventure when i’m with you

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this forever ago and i don't think i will ever get around to making it the high fantasy epic i wanna make it :')

The rain fell, cold and dreary. Cora trudged along, boots squelching obscenely in the mud each time she lifted her foot, scowl firmly in place. Against all odds, the light from the moon above reached the forest floor, coloring the underbrush a dull silver. It cast menacing shadows, but Cora was unafraid. It had been a very, very long time since she’d had any reason to really, truly be.

She had been in the rainfall for three solid days now, the cobblestoned highways of larger cities two days behind her. Her nose was red and runny, and her hands felt like two hunks of ice; though her heightened immunity prevented more serious ailments, her body was still solidly thrashed by winter.

It wasn’t all for nothing, she reminded herself, if a little bitterly, tugging her tunic sleeve firmly down out of habit. She had inquired about a redheaded witch a town back, and had been pointed firmly south. Having a proper direction had been a much needed pick-me-up after days of unknowing shrugs and apologies, and it hadn’t taken long for Cora to stumble upon Lydia’s unique scent: honeysuckle and firestone and something else familiar, but nameless.

When Cora reached the edge of the forest and began her way down a gentle hill to the village below, she realized Lydia’s scent was indeed unmistakable, if dulled by the rain and the stench of mud. It was exactly what Cora needed, the knowledge that she was so close warming her enough to push on without rest.

She doggedly followed the scent-trail that weaved through the tiny village, to the apothecary and then to the inn, and eventually to a squat-looking tavern that undoubtedly housed many vile, disreputable creatures -- if Cora’s nose had anything to say about the matter. The tavern was unremarkable, and looked much the same as the ones in every village Cora had drifted through. White smoke billowed freely from copper pipe jutting out from the clay-tiled roof, and a single lantern hung by the door, illuminating a weather-worn sign that declared the building _Southend Tavern._

All heads but one turned her way when she pushed through the heavy door and stepped inside, dripping rainwater and mud onto the floorboards. She stared back unabashedly, reining in the urge to flash her eyes. There was a tableful of goblins in the far corner, and, though the Hale Pack had a tense truce with their own goblin clan in Beacon proper, a goblin’s very nature was to oppose werewolves. She had a fight tonight, but it was not with them.

After a brief moment, the chatter of the tavern returned to full volume. Curious gazes became less curious, and Cora pushed past the trolls to the table in the very back where a familiar figure sat with the hood of their cloak drawn up over their head. The scent she had been looking for hung thick, and Cora could barely repress her victorious smirk.

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” she said.

Lydia’s hands flew up to the hood, as if checking to make sure it still covered her distinctly colored hair. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Nice to see you, too, Red. How am I doing? Never better. Thanks for asking.”

Lydia’s eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t make me turn you into a toad.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said. She sat, and jerked her chin towards the barkeep, who was watching them with his one shrewd eye. She gave him a respectful nod, then turned back to menace Lydia some more. “Not going to offer me a drink?”

“I would be wasting my coin,” Lydia replied, and then gestured to the door. “You really should see yourself out.”

“But I just got here. It’s been so long since we saw one another. I think it’s time we caught up.”

Lydia glowered, but Cora could see that she was phoning in her frustration, and it was not difficult to imagine why that was so. There was only one reason a witch of Lydia’s caliber was in a dingy tavern alone, mug of mead sitting untouched, and that was because she was attempting to go unnoticed -- an illusion Cora had deftly shattered by her arrival. Perhaps, a month ago, Lydia might have had Cora’s sympathy, but she did not have it now.

“I thought we had an agreement?” Lydia asked after a moment. “I raise your sister from the dead, you lend me your teeth for a moon-turn, and we call ourselves even.”

“We were square, witch,” Cora growled, Lydia’s careless words like striking a match against the coil of fire in her gut. She yanked her tunic sleeve up and turned her arm so that her wrist was facing up, keeping it low enough that it was protected from prying eyes by the tabletop. A rune the color of purple was branded onto her wrist, glowing with white magic. “Until you marked me.”

“I did no such thing,” Lydia breathed out, wide eyes shocked but firmly on Cora’s wrist. Cora could hear the truth in her heartbeat; it was fast, quick as a rabbit now, but as steady as a stone. “My magic isn’t -- that color…”

Cora jerked her sleeve down with a frown, mind whirling with other possibilities and counters to Lydia’s denial, ready to ask more questions, when she caught the telltale scent of fury, sour and cloying. She raised her head and scented the air, gaze drifting to a dark corner where a man sat, silver dagger in hand. He had the tip stuck into the wood, finger poised over the handle like he was waiting for a reason to flick it in someone’s direction. And, underneath his burning fury, Cora could smell magic and sickness, his anger like an arrow pointing directly at Lydia. “It looks like I’m not your only unsatisfied customer,” she said, shifting her eyes towards the stranger in the corner.

Lydia huffed. “Great,” she snapped, and moved forward to grab Cora’s wrist with a glare rivaling Cora’s own, like she did not have time for any more bad news. “Let me see the mark again.”

Cora went stiff under her touch, but obediently revealed the rune. “It came three nights ago,” she explained, flinching when Lydia traced it with her finger. She felt a buzz under her skin where Lydia touched her, warm and pleasant. It immediately put her on edge. No one but her pack had touched her in years, small brushes and careless passes, but Lydia’s hand on her, it felt… She shook the thought off and cleared her throat. “I would have found you sooner, but you’re a difficult woman to track down.”

Lydia released Cora’s wrist. “Maybe I’ve been avoiding you,” she said. Then, after a moment of what looked like thinking, she continued on, “Three nights ago… that was the new moon.”

Cora nodded, quietly hoping that Lydia was about to reveal how the hell a rune had managed to burn its way onto her arm when werewolves were, according to every lore she knew, unable to wield magic in any form.

Before the either of them could continue with their conversation, a giant ham of a fist slammed down next to Lydia’s mug of mead. The drink sloshed over, staining the wood dark. It was the sick rogue. He fixed Lydia with a furious glare.

“Rude,” Lydia said, dismissive as ever. “I’m having a private conversation.”

The rogue scowled further, glare intensifying as if he had bit into a sour lemon. “We don’t like witches around here,” he snarled, with no small amount of spittle; then, he turned his glare onto Cora. “We don’t like werewolves either.”

Cora looked to Lydia, who gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. The two of them had been… lukewarm acquaintances, once. They had spent an entire month together, traveling the countryside in search of an amulet in return for Laura’s life. They had encountered worse things than a bitter rogue at a tavern, and Cora tried to tamp down the rush of unwanted affection for days long past. Lydia needed Cora’s strength, and Cora needed Lydia’s brilliant mind. That was all.

They both stood.

“We’ll go to the druid in the mountains. He would best know what’s on your arm,” Lydia said, cracking her knuckles. “A truce until then?”

Cora flicked her claws out, eyes flashing gold. She felt a sudden rush of power, the rune on her arm buzzing anew. “After you, witch.”

 

-

 

They left the tavern standing, but barely, every man, woman, goblin, mercenary, and elf joining in the fray, all too happy to have a reason to throw punches and chairs. When the giant cauldron was tipped over and its contents slopped to the ground, Cora and Lydia slipped out the back with an apologetic wave to the barkeep, who merely shook an angry fist at their departure.

They walked to the edge of town in silence. Adrenaline simmered under Cora’s skin like electricity. It had been a long time since she had been in a proper fight, and even longer since it had been with an ally at her back. Laura, in her newly resurrected state, was even more diplomatic than she had been before, whereas Cora had always been quick to fight when she believed it was the right thing to do. It had been exhilarating to use her claws, after having them sheathed for so long, though the part of her that still possessed self-preservation hoped news of her brawl didn’t reach her alpha’s ears.

“Those trolls were formidable,” Lydia said, sending Cora a tight smile. “Your left hook is just as good as I remember.”

Cora flexed her hand. Previously broken skin had already knitted itself back, but her knuckles were still sore. “Thanks. Your levitation spell was—alright,” she said, then sighed, breath curling up like white smoke. Why was she returning compliments? Lydia already had a big enough ego. “You swear you have no idea what’s on my arm?”

“I might be a brilliant witch, but I don’t do runes,” Lydia said, heartbeat steady as ever. “It can be hinky stuff. For what it’s worth, though, yours looks pure. Like,” she pauses for a beat, a mild frown tugging at her lips, “a real Charter mark.”

Cora frowned, too. Wolves did not delve into magic. Whatever it was that made them weres inhibited its use. But it was impossible, even for the magic-repellent, to be ignorant of the Charter. Every magic-wielder drew its power from it, a relic from the founders of centuries past, the purest form of magic their world knew. She rubbed her wrist. The faint buzz she was coming to recognize as magic thrummed under her thumb -- a new, and unwanted, companion.

“It doesn’t _feel_ sinister,” she agreed mildly. She tried to put into words how she felt -- to explain the unexplainable to Lydia -- but all she could muster was a feeble, “I just don’t understand it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Lydia said, but her tone was surprisingly gentle.

When they reached the stables, Lydia sent the stable boy off with a silver coin, shrugging when Cora sent her an inquisitive look. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not walking. The druid’s house is a half day’s ride east,” she said, “but I have to warn you, there’s no guarantee he’ll give us a straight answer on what’s going on,” she gestured towards Cora’s arm, “ _there._ ”

Cora blew into her cupped hands. The rain had stopped, thankfully, but the bitter cold was still ever present. It would have been wonderful to stop in for the night, dry her clothes and stockings, but it was only a matter of time before the defeated creatures from the tavern went looking for the witch and the werewolf who had caused such a ruckus. Though, now it looked like the long ride towards the Druid could be fruitless as well.

“A druid holding their wisdom close to the chest is nothing new to me,” she griped. Deaton had been her mother’s emissary, years ago, and had been well known for the lengths he would go to give non-answers, and later, the quickness with which he had abandoned their pack when Talia had passed. “But it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Lydia smiled, as if those were the words she had been waiting to hear all night long. “Great,” she exclaimed. “Then you won’t mind helping me after this is all done. I’ll pay for our horses, of course.”

Cora growled, but the two of them knew she was stuck. “Don’t be predictable, Lydia.”

The stable boy brought them two sturdy mares, one black, one chestnut, before they could argue further. Lydia reached for the reigns of the lighter-colored horse and slipped five more coins into the boy’s upturned palm.

“Run along, now,” she said, and then turned to address Cora, patting the strong neck of her ride. Mischief sparked in her eyes. “After you, wolf.”


End file.
